


there's nought as camp as folk

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Camping, Friends to Lovers, Hiking, Multi, Pack Bonding, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-01-20
Packaged: 2018-05-15 04:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5771863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek is moments from sleep for the second time that night when Stiles whispers, “Shit, dude, I can’t find my pillow. I can’t sleep without my pillow.” </p><p>Derek lets out a strangled, hysterical sound. “When I find that pillow, I’m going to smother you with it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's nought as camp as folk

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very rough work. Just some camping ridiculousness, basically. Oh and Allison's alive, because I did not want to write any angst.

Derek is finally drifting off to sleep when he hears the unmistakeable sound of his tent being unzipped. There’s a brush of cold air that carries a familiar scent and sets Derek shivering, and then a dark figure dives in through the gap, knocking knees with Derek and then dropping off to the side. Derek stares at the canvas ceiling and pretends that Stiles isn’t there, because that’s the only way to deal with the other boy, and even that doesn’t work half of the time. Stiles seems to take being ignored as a personal challenge to make himself as noticeable as possible. And by noticeable, Derek means irritating. 

“Fucking hell, Lydia,” Stiles says, after a minute of panting, and confusion on Derek’s part. “I think it’s colder in here than it is out there, and it’s snowing out there. Obviously, the Ice Queen act isn’t just for show.” 

Derek snorts. “I’ve never been called an Ice Queen before.” 

Stiles freezes. His whole body tenses up and he lies as still as possible. Derek listens to his heart trip over itself with faint amusement. Slowly, as if Derek won’t notice, Stiles removes his leg from where it’s thrown casually over Derek’s and carefully retreats to a safer distance. 

“Well, uh,” Stiles says, licking his lips. “Happy to be your first, I guess. First to call you that, I mean, not your first anything else. Obviously. I mean, it’s not like you were thinking of anything else, and neither was I, obviously, I just wanted to, um – clarify.” 

It’s dark in the tent, just the faint light of the moon bleeding through the polyester canvas, but Derek doesn’t need to see Stiles to know that he’s blushing and silently mouthing curse words. Derek throws his arm over his head and presses a smile into the underside of his wrist. Something about Stiles when he’s flustered and caught off guard never fails to amuse him. It’s like watching a puppy flounder when they’re caught chewing on something they shouldn’t be, that wide-eyed panic. 

Derek shifts inside his sleeping bag and scowls as more cold air filters in through the tent door. 

“I thought this was Lydia’s tent,” Stiles explains. “You know, since I’m pretty sure that you and Parrish were supposed to be sharing, in the spirit of developing that good old Deputy bond you guys have got going on.” 

“We were sharing,” Derek says, ignoring the part about bonding. Derek likes Parrish, but he can tell that Stiles doesn’t. He used to. He used to joke about keeping Parrish, that he was a good addition to their dysfunctional Scooby-Doo team. But then something changed, and Stiles started referring to the man with a touch of hostility, sometimes even jealously. Derek doesn’t quite understand it, because Parrish is pretty gone on Lydia, but he could have sworn that Stiles had gotten over Lydia. 

“But?” Stiles inquires, fidgeting a little.

“But, Lydia turfed me out of our tent about an hour ago and told me I could have hers instead,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. She hadn’t exactly been subtle, and Derek didn’t know why she’d even bothered to come up with an excuse. “Apparently, there’s a draught in here.”

“Well, maybe she had a point. It is kind of cold,” Stiles points out, rubbing his arms. 

“That’s because you’ve left the door open.” Derek heaves an exasperated sigh. “Shut it, if you’re going to stay. I was just falling asleep.” 

Stiles doesn’t sound guilty, because Stiles doesn’t have any shame. “You’re letting me stay?” Stiles asks brightly. “Good, because if I have to listen to Scott whispering sweet nothings all night then I’m going to throw myself in the lake. And by sweet nothings, I mean gross, sappy, disgustingly adorable nothings.” 

“It could have been worse,” Derek mumbles into his sleeping bag. 

Stiles pauses. “How so?” 

Derek snorts. “I’m not having this conversation with you. Ask your Dad about the birds and the bees when we get home.” 

Stiles seems to think for a moment before the penny drops. “Oh, ha. Funny, funny man. Like I didn’t get that painfully awkward talk when I was eleven and Scott and I found a magazine on the bus. In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have hidden it under the mattress. Classic rookie mistake. Dad found it in like, a day or two, tops.” 

“Eleven?” Derek asks. 

“We didn’t do anything with it,” Stiles says defensively. “We just looked at it. It was a novelty, you know, like being handed forbidden fruit, or something. If you hand a pirate a treasure map, you wouldn’t blame him for looking at the X, would you?” 

“It’s too late to unravel your backwards logic,” Derek says, rubbing his eyes. “Where’s your sleeping bag?” 

“In my tent,” Stiles says, waving a dismissive hand. “I was too preoccupied with getting as far as way from Scott as quickly as possible. I’ve got my pillow though.” He picks something heavy up and waves it about in the dark. To Derek’s tired eyes, it resembles a very frantic, surrendering marshmallow. “Shit, it’s cold in here though.”

Derek snorts again and burrows further down. “Good luck getting to sleep.” 

“Wait, Derek,” Stiles whines, tugging at his shoulder. “You can’t leave me hanging like this. I’ll freeze to death out here. I’ll be a Stilescicle by morning. You gotta let me share.” 

Derek groans and pulls the sleeping bag up over his head. Stiles doesn’t let up, intent on shaking Derek until he rattles and moaning about how cold it is. 

“Dude, it’s on your best interests,” Stiles says, moving closer. “If I don’t get warm, I’ll never sleep, which means I’ll be awake, all night long. And you know how difficult it is for me to be quiet, especially late at night. That’s when all the thoughtful, intrinsic, existential shit needs to be discussed. I know, why don’t we kick things off with a little debate?”

Derek groans again, long and low and self-pitying. “For fucks sake, Stiles,” he mutters, sitting up. His head sticks up out of the sleeping bag, and he can see the way Stiles’ mouth twitches, and Derek wants to poke him in the eye. With his claws. 

“I’ll sort the sleeping bag out if you shut the damn door,” Derek stresses, throwing the comfortable, warm covers off of him. He sort of wants to cry as the cold air hits him. Gooseflesh flickers up his skin and he shudders, fiddling awkwardly with the zip. 

There’s a pause, and then Stiles says, “Technically it’s not a door, it’s a tent flap. Doors have handles.” 

“Maybe there’s a handle on the other side,” Derek suggests dryly. “Why don’t you go outside and have a look?” 

“You’re hilarious,” Stiles grumbles, crawling over Derek in order to reach the tent flap. He kicks Derek in the ribs and almost elbows him in the crotch before Derek shoves him aside in alarm. Stiles wobbles, glares at Derek, and then yanks angrily at the zip. It catches, and then gives in to Stiles’ relentless pulling, sealing them inside in the relative warmth. Derek shields his crotch with his pillow as Stiles manoeuvres his way back to the bit of space beside Derek. 

Eventually, they untangle themselves and manage to get marginally comfortable, as comfortable as possible when there are rocks and twigs and weeds underneath your back, poking through the canvas. Stiles huddles as close to Derek as possible whilst simultaneously trying to keep as much distance between them as he can, in case Derek snaps and drowns him in the lake. Derek listens to Stiles’ heartbeat, always a little faster than anyone else’s, inhales the chemical scent of Adderall and linen and the warm, earthy scent that always clings to Stiles, and lets the soft shush of the lake moving in the night lull him to into a haze. 

He’s moments from sleep when Stiles whispers, “Shit, dude, I can’t find my pillow. I can’t sleep without my pillow.” 

Derek lets out a strange, hysterical sound. “When I find that pillow, I’m going to smother you with it.”

 

*

When Stiles crawls out of the tent behind Derek the next morning, Scott falls off of his log. Stiles doesn’t notice, still crawling towards the campfire with half of the sleeping bag draped over him, but Derek notices. Kira awkwardly pulls Scott up from the floor, smiling strangely, and Scott looks from Stiles to Derek with a wide-eyed gaze. 

Stiles pauses, slumped against one of the logs, with a piece of burned toast halfway to his mouth. “What?” he asks, eyeing Scott like he’s the insane one in their relationship. Derek snorts and collapses onto his own log, nodding at Parrish across the fire. There’s no sign of Allison or Isaac, and Derek grimaces as he imagines what’s prompted them to stay in the woods for so long. 

“Nothing,” Scott says, shrugging. He looks confused, mostly, and Derek doesn’t bother correcting the assumption that he knows Scott has made, purely because his awkward expression is amusing, and a little endearing. Kira obviously agrees, because she kisses him chastely on the cheek and hands him a piece of bread. Scott skewers it absentmindedly, still looking at Stiles, who eventually gets tired of him looking and flips him off. 

“Very mature,” Lydia says as she emerges from her tent. Derek’s tent, but Derek isn’t going to complain, not at breakfast, because Derek is mature. He’s a (mostly) functioning adult with a job in the Sheriff’s department, a houseplant that hasn’t died in the last three weeks and a weekly appointment at the Soup Kitchen in town. If he’s honest, he’s a little more proud about the houseplant than he is anything else. He can quite easily remember the time when he mistook bleach for the plant food and sprayed every single one of his mother’s beloved flowers with it, to Laura’s delight. 

“You two must have been particularly cosy in there,” Lydia says lightly. Parrish offers her a piece of toast, buttered, and Lydia takes a delicate bite. 

“I thought you were in there,” Stiles says accusingly, narrowing his eyes. 

“Good job that I wasn’t,” Lydia says succinctly. “I would have kicked you out. Where’s Allison? I need to discuss my outfit.” 

Derek looks her up and down. She’s wearing bubble-gum pink hiking boots, a pink jumper and shorts, with a pair of thick tights covering her legs. Out of everyone, she seems to be the most collected person, standing there with her arms crossed. Derek looks at Stiles’ sleepy eyes and messy hair, skims over his makeshift cape and then looks down at his own frayed sweater. Out of what he can remember of family camping trips, you woke up haggard and bedraggled and you stayed that way until you collapsed into an uncomfortable bed just before midnight, exhausted and sore and smelly. 

“She and Isaac went into the woods to grab some firewood,” Scott explains, hiding a smile. They all take a second to stare at the crackling fire, and the pile of dry firewood that Stiles had been forced to collect the previous day, and then Lydia rolls her eyes. 

“Subtle,” she scoffs, and then stalks off in the direction of the woods. Parrish watches her go, and then leisurely stands and stretches, faking a yawn. Derek smirks as Parrish hurries off after his new girlfriend, waving a hand cheerily at them before disappearing into a copse of trees.

“Our numbers are rapidly diminishing,” Stiles says sadly. “Also, this tastes like that cardboard robot that I ate in kindergarten. Do you remember that, Scott? Scott?” 

Derek glances up in time to see Scott and Kira stumbling backwards into their tent, clutching each other and giggling. There’s a yelp as they fall, and then more giggling, and then a suspicious moment of quiet. Stiles clings to his sleeping bag and shares a look with Derek. 

“You know, when Scott said we were going away for a long weekend of pack bonding, I had a different kind of bonding in mind,” Stiles says contemplating. “Trust falls, too much exercise, that kind of thing. Not an orgy in the woods.” 

“We were supposed to go hiking today,” Derek says, ignoring the orgy comment. He doesn’t think he can cope with that kind of imagery in his head, and indulging Stiles in conversation is just asking for trauma and trouble. “I might go anyway. It looks clear enough.”

Stiles struggles to a stand immediately. “I’m coming with you. Can I borrow some boots?” 

Derek shoots him an incredulous look. “We came up to the mountains to camp, the mountains that are full of hiking trains, and you didn’t bring any hiking boots? What were you going to do, exactly?” 

“Borrow yours, obviously,” Stiles says, eyeing Derek strangely. “Besides, I don’t have any hiking boots. I only own the one pair of shoes, and I’m not forking out god knows how much just for one weekend. I’m never going to wear them again.” 

Derek sighs and rolls his eyes. “Fine, I have a spare pair. They might be a bit big, though. You’ve got dainty, ballerina feet.” 

Stiles squawks indignantly and throws his bread in Derek’s face. Derek snatches it out of the air and walks towards the tent with a smirk, chewing. It tastes disgusting, just like Stiles said, but Derek refuses to give Stiles the satisfaction of seeing him spit it out. It’s the principle of the thing. 

 

*

 

“Ow, ow, ow.” 

“You’re the definition of a moron, through and through,” Derek says, prodding at Stiles’ ankle gently. Stiles hisses as Derek pulls his sock down over the end of his foot, exposing his toes to the elements. The area is tender and already beginning to bruise, although Derek admits that that could be the cold. 

“It was not my fault,” Stiles says grumpily, crossing his arms. “I blame that hiking boot.” 

He gestures at the offending boot, which lies abandoned to the side, shoelaces flopped all over the place forlornly. Derek shakes his head fondly and carefully moves Stiles’ foot around, testing the pain. Stiles makes small, cut off noises, and eventually just flaps his hands at Derek, almost catching him around the ear. Derek jerks back, careful not to nudge the ankle, and glares at Stiles. 

“I’m trying to help, you idiot,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “Stay still. Did you bring the first-aid kit?” 

Stiles scowls at him, pain making him irritable. “No. You’re the one with the big, hulking rucksack. I figured you’d have it buried away in there somewhere.” 

Stiles had howled with laughter when he’d seen Derek’s rucksack, which is admittedly a little on the large side. He had laughed especially hard when Derek had tried to clamber over a tree-root and been over-balanced by the rucksack, pitching forward and landing on the floor with a thump and a surprised expression. 

“Werewolves don’t need first-aid kits,” Derek says, shrugging. “I’m not in the habit of carrying one around. You, though, get hurt all of the time. Literally, all the time.” 

Stiles scowls and says nothing. Derek sighs and carefully rolls the sock back up his foot. “Think you can walk?” he asks, standing up and brushing his jeans off. Stiles makes an irritable noise, but doesn’t reply immediately. He seems to be testing his ankle, circling it carefully. 

“I’m not a complete invalid,” Stiles mutters, and Derek knows instantly what’s wrong. He’s a little annoyed with himself for not realising it sooner, actually, but better later than never. It doesn’t take a genius to tell that Stiles has a few insecurities hidden away, the same as anyone, although Stiles’ insecurities revolve around how human he is compared to anyone else. Derek has never got up the courage to tell Stiles that sometimes, he wishes he were as human as Stiles. 

“I know that,” Derek says lightly. He turns around to give Stiles a bit of privacy and snatches up the boot, examining it. There’s no discernible damage, so Stiles had just put his foot down strangely and twisted his ankle. 

“How many times have you saved our asses?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow. Stiles glances up, about to stand, and looks at Derek strangely. A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. 

“About a thousand times,” Stiles says, grinning. “Or is it a thousand and one? I think I’ve lost count.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “I think you might be exaggerating there. Can you stand or not?” 

Stiles puts weight down on his foot and tries to hide a wince. “Yes,” he says, a little breathless. “Yes, I’ve got it. I’ve also got a very low pain threshold, so if my answer changes in a minute, don’t judge me.” 

Derek scoffs, stoops down and scoops Stiles up onto his back. Stiles yelps and clings onto Derek, almost strangling him. 

“That – okay,” Stiles says, voice high-pitched. “This is happening. I don’t think I’ve had a piggyback in years.” 

Derek coughs a little, and Stiles immediately releases his grip, swaying a little on Derek’s back. He’s not heavy enough to be much of a burden, and Derek has carried Stiles before, when the other boy had passed out after a blow to the head by some particularly pissed-off trolls. 

“Shit, sorry,” Stiles murmurs. “Probably shouldn’t kill my only viable way home. Otherwise I’ll have to roll back to camp, and there are a significant amount of obstacles between here and there that I will inevitably hit.” 

“Just hold on to my shoulders,” Derek says, cutting over Stiles’ rambling. “And wrap your legs around me.” 

Stiles makes a slightly hysterical sound, fidgets, and then complies, slowly. Derek grips his legs and starts off down the hill before he stops in his track and swears. 

“Fuck. I forgot about the rucksack.” 

“If you had packed a little less,” Stiles begins later on, after they’ve struggled down the trail and collapsed by the dying fire, but Derek cuts him off with a glare. It doesn’t stop the teasing grin that Stiles aims at him, but it does shut him up briefly. Derek rifles through the first-aid kit and pulls out a support bandage, plus a few antiseptic wipes for Stiles’ hands. The cuts are barely cuts, but Stiles still winces when Derek wipes over them. 

“Can you hear any of the others?” Stiles asks, leaning forward to watch as Derek eases the bandage under Stiles’ ankle. The muscle memory kicks in, and Derek wraps it up relatively easily, despite the fact that he hasn’t used a bandage in years, and despite the fact that Stiles is so close, eyes intent and mouth parted a little. 

“I think so,” Derek murmurs. Then he pats Stiles on the knee and looks up, only to find that Stiles is inches away. Big, wide eyes, lashes sweeping his cheeks, little upturned nose and bowed lips, all a mere breath away from Derek. Stiles sways a little like he’s off balance and not sure where he’s going to fall, but like he wants it to be towards Derek. Derek  
feels the moment stretch thin, heavy with tension. 

Someone coughs behind them. 

They jump back. Stiles swears loudly as he jolts his foot, and Derek ducks his head and focuses on rearranging the first-aid kit. He’s not sure what almost happened, but he’s certain that it was something. Something that, possibly, he might want to revisit later. 

Stiles scoops up a water bottle and avoids Derek’s gaze. “I thought you two were busy scandalising the poor forest.” 

Allison offers them an innocent smile that doesn’t quite hide the gleam in her eyes. Isaac smirks at them and asks slyly, “Are we interrupting something?” 

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Stiles says cheerfully, before Derek can reply. “Derek and I were about have vigorous, athletic, flexible sex right here, by the lake, with the fire crackling in the background, but now you’ve ruined it. It was going to be magical.” 

“Magical, maybe, but I don’t know about flexible, not with this ankle,” Derek says under his breath, and Stiles chokes on his water. 

 

*

 

Derek doesn’t even have a chance to get into his sweatpants that night before there’s a knock on one of the tent poles. Derek unzips the tent and pokes his head out at the same time as Stiles pokes his head in. Derek reels back, rubbing his forehead with a glare. Stiles pays him no mind, dragging his bag into Derek’s tent. 

“I’m sleeping in here again,” Stiles announces, dumping his bag in the corner and dusting off his hands dramatically. 

“I thought Scott and Kira promised to go straight to sleep tonight,” Derek says, although he isn’t really complaining. It’s nice, sharing the tent even if it means getting kicked in the ass by Stiles’ flailing feet or getting his half of the sleeping bag ripped off him in the middle of the night. 

“That’s the problem,” Stiles says loudly, slumping into the spot besides Derek. He takes in the scene in front of him with a raised eyebrow, and Derek tilts his chin up. 

“What?” he asks, defensively. “I like solitaire.” 

Stiles snorts and shakes his head. “Whatever you say, old man. Pass me the cards, we’re playing Go Fish now.” 

Derek grimaces at him. “Why? I hate that game. I think I had to play it one hundred times with Cora when we took that road trip. I have no idea why she’s so obsessed with it, it’s just luck.”

Stiles’ eyebrow climbs further up his head. “Because solitaire is a purely scientific, logical tacticians game, isn’t it? Anyway, Go Fish is easy, and I’m too tired for anything complicated right now.” He sweeps the cards off of the floor and starts shuffling them absentmindedly. 

“Wait, why is it a problem?” Derek asks, confused. 

Stiles looks up. “What?”

“Scott and Kira sleeping,” Derek clarifies. “Why is that a problem? If they’re asleep, that means they’re not doing other things.” 

Stiles scoffs. “Because if they’re asleep, then there’s no one to protect me from the moose I heard wandering around earlier. That’s what you’re for.” 

Derek blinks at him, mind blank. “Moose. A moose.” 

“Yes, a moose, Derek,” Stiles says, glaring. “I heard it, I definitely heard it. We’re up here in the mountains, where they roam, so it makes sense that I heard one. I heard something.” 

Derek’s mouth twitches. “Of all the things we’ve fought, Alpha’s, Kanima’s, fairies, trolls, and you’re afraid of a moose.” 

“They’re formidable bastards,” Stiles says, still with that heavy glare. “And I’m not afraid, I’m wary. There’s a difference, a big one. And wary people head to the tents with awake werewolves in, because certain wary people forgot their bat. Not that a bat would do much good against a moose anyway. They’re formid-”

“Formidable bastards, yes, you mentioned that,” Derek says, grinning. He waves a hand at the set of cards and shakes his head. “I’ll keep you safe from any stray moose, as long as you don’t make me play Go Fish.”

Stiles smirks and winks. “It’s your lucky evening. Deal.” 

 

*

 

They’ve never looked more like a pack than they do now, standing around, sodden and miserable, in the middle of a downpour at the top of the hiking trail. Stiles’ ankle is relatively better, but Derek stays nearby just in case he slips and falls. 

“Who the fuck thought this was a good idea?” Isaac yells. He has his scarf wrapped around him tightly, and keeps getting smacked in the face by the ends as the wind whips around him. Derek thinks he heard Stiles snigger the first time it happened, but every time since has sent him into full-blown laughter that he hides behind Derek’s back. 

“You did,” Scott shouts back, and then makes a calming gesture with his hands. Lydia lets out an irritable huff and stomps her feet. 

“I don’t care who thought of it, who’s going to think of a way out of this?” 

Scott looks at her blankly, confused. “I think we’re going to just have to walk, Lydia.” 

Lydia sniffs. Derek gets the impression that she wanted someone to volunteer to get the car and bring it up here, but he doesn’t blame them all for side-stepping that particular little chore. “Uncreative,” she snaps, and then storms off back down the trail. The rain keeps coming down harder, soaking through their clothes until they’re all waterlogged and shivering. Allison’s hair is slicked to her face and Kira keeps slipping and colliding with Scott. Derek hopes that the wind isn’t strong enough to blow the tents away, but then he remembers the little wards that Lydia had set up when they had first arrived. 

“Fuck this,” Stiles says, hopping a little in order to catch up. Derek slows down a little, blinking blearily through the rain until he finds Stiles’ hand and clings to it. Stiles squeezes his hand back and winks at Derek, cheerful despite the weather. 

By the time they make it back to the camp, the cheer has worn off a little. The tents are, thankfully, still in their place, tied down by pegs and guy ropes and Lydia’s determination. Derek tugs Stiles towards their tent and impatiently fumbles with the zip, numb fingers sliding over the canvas. Stiles shudders behind him, head ducked to avoid getting blasted by wind and rain. When Derek finally gets the door open, Stiles shoves him in until Derek lands face-forward on the sleeping bag. He groans as Stiles clambers over him, kicking his shoes off near the door. 

“Quick, shut the fucking door, the rain’s still getting in,” Stiles says, making himself comfortable on his pillow. He grins cheekily at Derek, who glares and flips him the finger before heading for the door. He zips it back off and wrangles his own shoes, shaking his head like a dog. 

“I thought it wasn’t a door,” Derek says, shuffling back onto their makeshift bed. The sleeping bag is a little wet from their clothes, but Derek doesn’t care, because it’s dry and warm and cosy – 

A drop of rainwater lands on Derek’s face. Confused, he rubs his cold hand over his skin and then glances over at Stiles. Stiles is busy staring at the roof of the tent with an appalled expression. 

“Uh, Derek?” 

Derek looks up and promptly wishes that he had never agreed to come camping. There’s a large rip in the canvas, large enough that rain is beginning to pour through, along with the cold, and Stiles is shivering in the corner, hand wrapped around his injured ankle and Derek groans loudly. 

“How the hell did that happen?” he asks, and then quickly shuffles the sleeping bag out of harm’s way. “I don’t suppose you’ve got an umbrella or something?” 

Stiles’ expression clears. “Yeah, actually. Dad insisted I bring one just in case, along with a bunch of other useless stuff. 

“It’s not useless now, though,” Derek says, holding a hand out. Stiles makes a touché gesture, a kind of salute, and drags his bag towards him. Derek watches him rummage through his belongings, brow furrowed in concentration, and feels a strange wave of fondness rush over him. It’s not an uncommon occurrence, or an unfamiliar emotion. Ever since the Nogitsune had been banished from Stiles’ body, they had grown a lot closer. Derek tolerated Stiles now, enjoyed his company even, and Stiles had been much less hostile towards him, including him in his jokes and teasing him constantly. 

The fondness, the friendship, even the moments like the one yesterday, where they had been close to kissing, it had all been a long time coming. Derek could admit now, freely, that he liked Stiles. He liked his laugh and his body and his ridiculous sense of humour, his sharp wit and even sharper mind, the way he connected incredibly difficult puzzles together like other people connected Lego bricks. They were similar, in a lot of ways and different, too, but that was what would make them work. 

“Earth to Derek Hale,” Stiles says, with a hint of amusement. He waves the umbrella in Derek’s face. Derek blinks, offers him an apologetic smirk, and then accepts the umbrella. After a bit of jiggling, the umbrella hangs from the rip, blocking out as much of the rain as possible. 

“That’s a pretty nice puddle we’ve got there,” Stiles says, indicating the floor of the tent. Derek glances down and grimaces. He’s still in his wet clothes and his socks are squishy from the rainwater, and to top it all off, there’s a nice pool of water right beneath the umbrella, taking up half of the tent. “It’s going to be fun sleeping in here tonight.” 

“I’ve got towels,” Derek says, sighing. He shivers, then, and reaches for the hem of his jumper. He peels it off quickly, and his shirt goes with it. He tosses the shirt into the corner of the room and leans across Stiles to pull his bag towards him. He glances up in time to see the blush paint Stiles’ cheeks. “Sorry,” Derek murmurs, leaning away. But before he can move properly, Stiles grabs his arm. 

Derek raises an eyebrow. Stiles’ eyes are fixed on his own hand. “Hmm,” Stiles says, “Biceps.” 

Derek can’t help but laugh, loudly. Stiles seems a little relieved, a giddy sort of grin spreading across his face. They’re both still soaked, but that doesn’t stop Derek from pulling Stiles towards him. Stiles yelps in surprise and crashes into Derek’s lap. They both keel sideways onto the discarded sleeping bag, narrowly missing the puddle of water. It’s strange, but not unwelcome, to look up and see Stiles, to feel the weight of him pressing Derek down. 

Stiles traces a shape on Derek’s bare chest with the tip of his finger, and Derek shivers. He leans up to capture Stiles’ mouth in a kiss, a soft, warm kiss that turns hot and slick quickly, hands tugging at hair and fingers brushing skin. Stiles bites at Derek’s bottom lip slowly before he pulls away and Derek sighs happily. 

“You know,” Stiles says slowly. “It’s going to be a long night. And we can’t exactly leave this tent, can we? Not with the downpour outside. So I was thinking, since we’re all soggy and cold, we could probably do something to warm ourselves up, couldn’t we?” 

Derek grins. “You make a very convincing argument.” 

 

*

 

Derek is woken from sleep by a hand shaking his shoulder fiercely. He grunts and rubs at his eyes. “Derek,” Stiles hisses, still shaking him wildly, and Derek groans loudly. They’re tucked up under the sleeping bag, draped all over each other, Stiles’ cold feet shoved under Derek’s knees. Derek is warm and comfortable, and up until recently, asleep. 

“What, Stiles?” He glares up at the other boy half-heartedly. Stiles’ eyes are wide and panicked, and he grabs Derek’s face with both hands. 

“This time I definitely heard a moose.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked it, leave a comment or a kudos! Thank you very much for reading!  
> You can find me on Tumblr @thealmostrhetoricalquestion


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